


Bad Day?

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Joe West, Trans Barry Allen, Trans Character, Transphobia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A homicide involving a trans woman puts Barry in a painful place at work, and with himself. He doesn't expect to find comfort from Leonard Snart, of all people, no matter what feelings Barry may harbor for the other man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Day?

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, let me just preface this fic by saying that I am a cis woman, and while I made sure to do plenty of research and consult with someone who is trans while writing and editing, if there's anything in here I still screwed up or did problematically, _please_ do not hesitate to let me know. Fandom (and the internet in general) has been one of my biggest teachers, and I never want to stop learning and growing with your help.  
>  Also, some of the content may be triggering, as there is some description of transphobic violence and incidences of misgendering, though none of it is directed toward Barry. If you have any questions about the severity of the content before you go ahead and read, don't hesitate to ask me.  
> All that being said, I hope you all enjoy the fic and leave me kudos and comments to let me know what you think!

Barry is one of the last CSIs to arrive at the crime scene. He rushes to the van, already parked on the curb, to receive orders from his supervisor before approaching the mouth of the alley. Barry flashes his credentials to the officer minding the perimeter, and she nods, raising the crime scene tape, allowing him to slip deftly underneath.  

As soon as he was assigned to the case at the station, he also received a text from Joe. He requested Barry see him as soon as he arrived on scene, the message all in caps, and it doesn’t take Barry long to figure out why. Even on the short journey from the street to the dumpster where the body’s been dumped, he can hear the faint whispers. Barry’s stomach ties itself in knots.

“Hey, Joe,” the speedster greets. He goes for a smile, but he knows it doesn’t come out right.

“Hey, Barr,” Joe replies, his own expression equally twisted. “Listen, about this case.”

Barry cuts the other man off. “I heard,” he says.

Joe sighs, face pinched. “I should have met you at the curb,” he mutters, voice filled with remorse.

“It’s fine,” Barry says, head shaking. “Crime scenes can get personal. It’s part of the job. I wouldn’t have become a CSI if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

“So, you’re okay?” Joe asks, hesitant.

“Yes, Joe, I’m fine,” Barry replies. It’s a bold-faced lie. His chest feels tight, his throat closed up, like he might choke or vomit or both.

Fortunately, Joe seems to buy the fib - or maybe he just knows better than to push - and leads Barry to the open cover of the dumpster. Peering inside, Barry’s eyes shut against his will, head turning reflexively to look away. He takes a deep, grounding breath and forces himself to look again, bracing this time for his body’s visceral reaction.

The woman looks about thirty, though it’s hard to tell with all the cuts and bruises marring her features. Loose clumps of dark hair are spread around her tall, narrow frame, bald patches distributed across her scalp like someone ripped the long strands out with their bare hands. The front of her sequin blouse is torn open, the bra beneath it ripped, one side of her flat chest exposed. Two small, silicone breast forms sit to her right, spattered with splotches of dried blood.

Barry involuntarily draws in a ragged breath through his nose. Immediately, his stomach roils at the smells of decomposing flesh and expired chinese food from the restaurant next door.

Joe’s warm hand descending on his shoulder is the only thing that keeps Barry from shaking apart on the spot. “Barry,” he says gently.

“Yeah,” Barry replies, the sound a rushed exhale, as he tries to regain his bearings. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Do you need to take a step back?” Joe asks.

Barry shakes his head. “No, I’ve got this,” he says, with more conviction than he feels.

Joe lingers, unsure, for another few seconds before clapping Barry gently on the back and stepping away to let the CSI do his job. Barry runs through evidence collection hyper-methodically, cold detachment the only thing keeping him from breaking down. Joe never strays far from the young man’s side, sending other officers out to canvas the area in favour of remaining on scene.

Finally, Barry steps back from the body, coordinating with another CSI to sign over all the evidence he’s collected. Joe waits for him at the mouth of the alley, hands on his hips. It’s his classic defensive posture, chest puffed out, trying to make himself look as big and threatening as possible. Barry’s not even sure he knows he does it. Probably not, the younger man decides.  

“Did you find anything useful?” Joe asks when Barry arrives at his side.

“There’s trace evidence everywhere,” Barry replies, rubbing nervously at his elbows. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding whoever did this. It’s like they weren’t even trying to cover their tracks.”

“Then why dump the body?” Joe wonders, eyebrows knitting together in thought.

“Maybe it’s a statement,” Barry scoffs, bitter.  

Joe frowns and looks over at his foster son with concern. “Maybe you should talk to Captain Singh,” he suggests. “I’m sure he’d understand. Let you transfer off the case.”

“I don’t want to transfer off the case,” Barry snaps. “I wanna catch the scumbag who did this.”

Joe nods his head in understanding.

“Do you have any idea who the victim is?” Barry asks after a long, silent moment, voice quieter, sheepish about his outburst.

“No ID on the body,” Joe replies. “But the guy from the chinese place who found her says they worked together. Angelique Towers. She closed the place up last night.”

“Which fits with time of death,” Barry says. He sighs, deep and perturbed, and bites at his bottom lip.

Joe opens his mouth to offer Barry some form of comfort, but he stops abruptly as the sound of two nearby officers talking becomes loud enough to hear.

“What he gets for walking around like that,” one of the officers is saying to the other.

“If he were my son he wouldn’t be,” the other officer replies, the comment spit like acid.

Barry’s whole body flushes both hot and cold all at once. His bones feel hollow, like he’s left his body and is instead floating somewhere above his head, barely tethered to reality. His eyes are hot, pricking with tears. His face is hot, hot and clammy. His fingers are like ice, his lips like ice. Everything is so, so wrong, but he doesn’t know how to make it right. He tries to find his voice but it’s lost somewhere in his skull. Maybe that’s the lump in his throat.

Barry feels ashamed, so ashamed, like he’s done something terribly, horribly wrong, but he can’t figure out what.

“Excuse me,” Joe roars, turning on his heels to face the gossiping officers. They’re both young, probably no older than their early twenties, and brand new to the force. They pale under the force of Joe’s glare. One goes so far as to gulp.

“What did you just say?” the detective asks, anger still barely contained.

“N-nothing,” one of the officers stammers.

“Oh, really?” Joe challenges. “So I didn’t just hear you blatantly making prejudiced remarks against our victim on the basis of her gender identity?”

Total silence.  

“I could have you both brought up on disciplinary charges for what I just heard,” Joe continues, unrelenting. “What does this badge even mean to you, anyway? Do you have any respect for the Central City Police Department? Serve and protect doesn’t just mean people like you, or people you agree with. It means everyone. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Detective West,” the officers reply, each white as a sheet.

“Maybe you should think about that the next time you wanna let your personal biases affect your conduct as officers of the law.”

Joe stalks off angrily, and Barry follows quickly behind him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Barry whispers after they’ve ducked past the crime scene tape.

“That wasn’t for you, Barry,” Joe replies, turning to meet the younger man’s eyes. “That was for the citizens of this city who deserve to be able to put their trust in the police, no matter who they are. If that had been for you, I’d have shot them where they stood.”

Barry lets out a strangled laugh at Joe’s bold statement. Joe doesn’t, which raises a few worrying questions about how serious he is.

“Still,” Barry says once his laughter’s died down. “I appreciate it.”

“You should never have to appreciate me looking out for you, Barry,” Joe replies. “You’re my son. That’s my job.”

 

* * *

  

The sound of a throat clearing nervously pulls Barry from his focus. He looks up from his microscope to see Officer Adams entering the lab carrying a kit full of samples. She’s a petite woman in her early twenties, another new hire, and it shows in her constant skittishness around the precinct. She seems particularly on edge this afternoon, though.

“For the Towers case,” Officer Adams explains.

Barry nods and she crosses the lab in three long strides, all anxious energy, to place the kit on his desk. “That’s everything that was catalogued in the dumpster around his - her - body,” she continues, fumbling lamely over the pronouns and sounding a little unsure.

“Her body,” Barry agrees, nodding sharply.

Officer Adams lets out a nervous giggle. “Right,” she says, colour flooding her cheeks. “Oh, jeez. I’m sorry. I’m trying. It’s just, half the guys downstairs are saying he and the other half are saying she, and I’m getting all turned around.”

Again, Barry nods. “It’s okay,” he replies.

“I mean,” Officer Adams continues. “I know she’s not around to hear or anything. And maybe it’s silly of me to be so worried. All I know is that, if something horrible ever happen to me like what happened to her, I’d want the people responsible for catching my killer to treat me with a little respect, at least.”  

“Yeah,” Barry says softly, almost sadly.

Officer Adams backs nervously from Barry’s desk and gives him a tight smile. “Anyway,” she says. “I’ll let you get back to your work. I hope you find something useful.”

“Thanks,” Barry replies, returning the young woman’s smile. “I hope so, too.”

As soon as Officer Adams exits the lab, Barry sighs and stands from his chair, moving to collect the new samples. Her genuine concern for respecting the victim’s gender identity lifts some of the weight Barry’s been carrying around in his chest all day. Still, the fact that she has to try _so hard_ , that it’s _so difficult_ for her to remember which pronouns to use, cuts deeper than Barry expects.

 _It’s so difficult_ , a small voice in the back of Barry’s mind whispers, _because she doesn’t really believe that Angelique Towers is a woman. Because, to her, trans people are just playing dress-up. Putting on a costume. A man pretending to be a woman._

_A woman pretending to be a man._

It’s an oversimplification of a complex issue, Barry knows. People don’t just walk away from their internal biases overnight. And, even then, people can sympathize, but they can never really understand, not when the experience isn’t their own. It’s not wrong for Officer Adams - for anyone - to fumble and make mistakes.

Barry just wishes it didn’t feel so goddamned isolating.

The speedster spends the next few hours cooped up in his lab running tests on sample after sample from the crime scene. He tries to keep a clear head, to stay objective, but drawing the line between abstract science and real live person ends up being harder than usual under the circumstances.

The first emotion to break through Barry’s walls is anger. Perhaps it’s because the anger is easier to feel than the pain, hot and _alive_ instead of empty and hollow. Whatever the reason, pure, unbridled fury burns through Barry’s body like wildfire.

Because Angelique Towers’ murder isn’t an isolated incident. It’s an epidemic. And it makes Barry livid. How can society be so broken that trans women - especially trans women of colour - so often end up the victims of someone else’s hatred and bigotry.  

On the heels of his anger, fear creeps up to steal the breath from Barry’s lungs. He feels cold and clammy, stomach twisted in impossible knots, as he considers another terrifying thought.

That could have been him.

It’s a thought he quickly tries to shake. Because it wasn’t him. Has never been him. No one’s ever been violent with him because he’s trans. No one’s ever verbally or sexually harassed him because he’s trans.

Which, Barry will admit, might have something to do with the fact that nobody actually knows he’s trans.    

Obviously Joe and Iris do, and Cisco and Caitlin, but that’s where it ends. Hell, more people know about his secret identity as The Flash than about his secret identity as a trans man. His parents helped him start transitioning very young, almost as soon as he was able to talk. As soon as he was able to tell them he wasn’t a girl.

Fortunately, when Joe took Barry in, the detective was nothing but supportive of his transition, too. He fought for Barry’s counselling, fought for his hormone replacement therapy, fought for his top surgery. He wrestled with insurance companies for every dime they would give him, then went on to pay out of pocket for anything they wouldn’t. He was a single father on a cop’s salary. Barry could see how much of a strain it was. But Joe wouldn’t let him have anything less than what he needed. Because that was his job.

A job that, today, he took on single-handedly once again. Joe stood up for Angelique Towers  where Barry remained silent, jaw hinged shut out of fear and self-preservation. He fought a battle Barry should have been fighting himself, but was too much of a coward to face.

It isn’t that Barry’s ashamed of being trans. He’s just anxious. Anxious of what people will say, of how differently they might treat him if they knew. He wants to be out, wants to feel like he doesn’t constantly need to hide such a huge part of his identity, that he isn’t lying by omission. It feels so nice to be with Caitlin and Cisco at S.T.A.R. Labs, knowing he doesn’t have to maintain this image he’s carefully crafted of himself for the sake of other people’s perception. He wants to feel that way all the time.

Unfortunately, for every step forward Barry takes toward the closet door, days like today send him running right back to the deepest, darkest corner he can find. Days like today make his identity feel dangerous, like a burden, like something wrong and undesirable.

It takes Barry far longer than it should to go through all the samples. He works through dinner, grabbing a sandwich and a soda from the vending machine at the station. Finally, he gets all the data processed. The DNA from under the victim’s fingernails belongs to a man already in the police database, already arrested for prejudicially motivated violence. Barry passes the information along to an officer on duty, Joe’s shift having ended hours ago, and closes up his lab, ready for the day to just be over with.

He considers going back to his apartment, but quickly decides against it. The last thing he wants right now is to be alone.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, can I get a beer?” Barry asks the bartender as he slides onto a stool at the end of the bar.

The man grunts once in reply and pulls a bottle from the fridge behind him. He pops the top with a bottle opener strung to his belt and passes the drink to Barry. The speedster’s fingers wrap around the cool glass and he brings it to his lips, taking a long, slow sip.

The bar is an absolute hole in the wall, complete with dingy walls, muted lights, and rickety furniture. The floor beneath Barry’s feet is disconcertingly sticky, and he raises them to the footrest of his barstool.

“You know what,” Barry says after taking another few, unsatisfying mouthfuls of beer. “Give me a shot of, just, whatever’s cheapest that’s gonna feel like battery acid going down.”

“Bad day?” a familiar voice asks from the spot to Barry’s right.

Barry hadn’t even noticed the older man sit down, and he doesn’t bother responding. When the bartender sets a shot of clear liquid down in front of him, Barry knocks it back immediately. His face scrunches up, eyes watering, as the alcohol scorches his throat, and he slams the glass back down on the bartop forcefully.

“Another,” Barry says.

The bartender refills his glass and, again, Barry takes the shot without pause.

The man beside him chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“What are you even doing here, Snart?” Barry snaps, finally turning to face the thief. He’s dressed casually in a black thermal shirt and a dark pair of jeans. Both of his elbows rest on the bar, his chin leaned atop his clasped hands. Barry has to suppress a shudder as an unexpected wave of desire floods through his body.  

“Call me Len,” the other man drawls. “We are technically off the clock, so to speak.”

As Len turns to order a scotch from the bartender, Barry steals a more careful glance up and down the older man’s body. While he’s certainly not in the mood for whatever antagonistic banter Len’s looking to start, he has to admit, he’s not completely sure he wants the thief to leave him alone, either.

Barry does the only thing he can think to. He orders another shot.

“You might wanna take it easy, Kid,” Len says, hesitant.

Barry just shakes his head before knocking it back. “I can’t get drunk,” the younger man replies. The bartender is safely out of earshot, serving up a drink to one of the only other patrons in the place. “My metabolism’s too fast.”

“Then why bother?” Len wonders, gesturing toward Barry’s bottle of beer and his empty shot glass with his chin.

Barry lets out a self-deprecating laugh, the whole thing sounding a bit strangled. “Let’s just say I’m in a special kind of place right now where I can really appreciate the burn,” he says. “Plus, maybe if I go through the motions, I’ll manage to trick myself.”

Len sips pensively on his drink. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

The question catches Barry off guard. When he glances over, Len seems genuinely concerned, brow furrowed, shoulders hunched forward.

“It’s nothing,” Barry replies, guarded and wary. “Just a rough day at work.”

Len’s brow only furrows deeper at Barry’s words, and the sincere worry in the older man’s display knocks Barry’s world off kilter. Len is supposed to be his enemy. Barry doesn’t know what to do with this tender sympathy, especially not when he has enough trouble compartmentalizing his feelings for the thief on a good day.

He’s just so tired, so emotionally exhausted, that he can’t figure out how to hold it all together anymore. A small, broken sob escapes Barry’s throat, and his face crumples pitifully as he begins to cry.  

Len’s eyes widen in surprise, but he’s quick to pull himself together, rising from his chair and pulling a few bills from his back pocket, leaving them on the counter to pay for their drinks before grabbing Barry by the elbow and pulling him off his stool. He leads the younger man down a quiet, narrow hallway. Barry leans heavily against the wall and Len hovers in front of him, still giving the younger man his space but close enough that Barry can feel the warmth of his body.

“Talk to me,” Len says softly, and Barry breaks.

“It’s this case I’m working,” the speedster explains between trembling breaths. “It just hit really close to home, and I don’t know how to processes it. How to get over it.”

Barry’s arms are wrapped tight around his middle, like he’s trying to somehow physically hold himself together. Len reaches out softly, the very tips of his fingers closing around Barry’s right elbow.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” the thief asks again, just as he had at the bar, but this time, instead of feeling nervous, Barry feels an unexpected calm wash over him.

Because Len isn’t his enemy. Not anymore. Whatever their relationship used to be, it’s evolved into something different, something more tricky and hard to define. Len isn’t looking at him with the cold, calculated eyes of a villain. He’s looking at Barry with the soft, desperate eyes of… something else.

Maybe it doesn’t make sense to trust Len, to put such a powerful secret in his hands when he could do so much to hurt Barry with it, but that doesn’t change the way Barry feels.

“I got assigned to this homicide,” Barry whispers, whole body trembling. “This hate crime.”

His voice cuts off abruptly, breathing still irregular from crying. Len’s thumb rubs comforting circles into Barry’s elbow through the fabric of his sweater.

“God, it was so awful,” he whimpers, head shaking as images from the crime scene jump, unbidden, into his mind. “They just threw her body in a dumpster like she was garbage.”

Barry begins crying in earnest again. He slouches forward to place his hands on his knees, his whole body doubling over in pain, but instead, he finds himself wrapped up in Len’s strong arms. Immediately, Barry’s fists clench in the fabric over Len’s broad shoulders, so tight his fingers feel like they’re breaking. He sobs into Len’s shoulder, and the older man lets him, one hand stroking reassuringly through his hair, the other rubbing his back.

Something in Len’s posture is stiff, like he isn’t used to being so close to another person, like it’s foreign and unnatural. It doesn’t feel unwilling to Barry, though. More like a tentative step toward something he’s both afraid of and desperate for.

Barry cries for a few long, drawn out minutes before he’s finally calmed down enough to pull back from the hug. He wipes at his eyes with his sleeves and offers Len a sheepish, watery smile.

“Sorry,” Barry whispers.

Len shakes his head. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “Seems like you needed it.”

“Yeah,” Barry sighs. He keeps his eyes downcast as he speaks next and fidgets nervously. “It’s just, she was a trans woman.”

Barry glances up at Len through his eyelashes from where he’s slumped again against the wall. The older man has his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed, like he’s halfway to drawing a conclusions but waiting for Barry to confirm his suspicions more explicitly.  

“And I’m a trans guy,” Barry finishes, almost completely inaudible. His eyes are downcast once more, afraid to look up at Len, afraid to see his reaction. He feels nauseous and lightheaded, like he might vomit and pass out all at once, a cold sweat beading on his forehead.

“Barry, look at me,” Len says softly. Against his will, Barry looks up, like Len has him hypnotized. The other man’s eyes are still soft around the edges and so incredibly warm.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he continues. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

Barry nods, finally able to swallow past the lump in his throat.

“And thank you,” Len adds. “For sharing something so personal with me.”

The deep rasp of Len’s voice, raw and thick with emotion, coupled with intense heat in his eyes makes Barry’s toes curl. He’s so overcome by the endorphins coursing through his body he doesn’t even stop to think before surging forward and capturing Len’s lips in a deep, passionate kiss.

As soon as his mind catches up with his actions, Barry pulls back, an intense blush colouring his cheeks. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I don’t even know what came over me, I--”

Barry’s rushed apology is abruptly cut off as Len grabs him around the neck and pulls him into a desperate, heart-stopping kiss. Barry melts into the older man, hands grabbing greedily at his waist. Len’s fingers curl around the base of Barry’s skull, nails scratching across his scalp, and his thumbs stroke, insistent, across the hinges of the speedster’s jaw.

When Len’s tongue traces along the seam of Barry’s lips, the younger man’s mouth opens eagerly with a breathy, indecent moan. The sound only serves to spur Len on. He crowds Barry against the wall, their bodies pressed head to toe, and kisses him deeper, wetter, dirtier.

Barry’s whole body is flushed so hot he can barely stand it. He fights with himself to pry his lips from Len’s, but eventually, he manages, panting heavy and hot.

“Can I take you home?” Barry asks.

With their bodies so close, Barry can feel the shiver wracks Len’s frame.

“I thought you’d never ask, Scarlet,” the older man replies. Unexpectedly, his posture stiffens and he takes a small step back. His sudden frown makes Barry’s blood turn to ice in his veins.

“What?” the speedster asks, concern gnawing at his insides.

“Is that okay?” Len asks, looking up to meet Barry’s eyes. “Scarlet?”

Barry understands what he wants to know, if he minds a nickname that also happens to be a woman’s name. That Len even thought to ask has an overwhelming heat spreading through Barry’s gut.  

“Yeah,” he replies, nearly breathless. “Scarlet’s okay. I like it.”

The reassurance is all it takes for Len to relax once more. He leans back in and kisses Barry again, tender and slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world. It makes Barry’s chest ache.

“Hang on tight,” the speedster whispers, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before Len can reply, they’re gone in a flash of lightning.

 

* * *

 

Barry skids to a stop in the middle of his living room, hand braced protectively around the back of Len’s neck. It only takes the older man a few seconds to collect his bearings, and, as soon as he does, he leans forward to recapture Barry’s lips in a searing kiss. Barry slides his hand down to grip onto Len’s shoulder, the other pressing against the small of Len’s back. Both of Len’s hands are on his back, clutching at the fabric of his sweater.

“Can I take this off?” the thief asks, tugging at the loose fabric in his fists.

“Yeah,” Barry pants into Len’s ear. He takes a small step back, giving the other man enough room to slide his hands under his shirt along his bare sides, pulling it up and over his head.

As soon as Barry’s sweater hits the floor, Len’s hands return to his hips and draw him back in. He plants lazy, open-mouthed kisses across Barry’s right shoulder and up the side of his neck. Barry shivers as Len’s fingers trace absent patterns into his skin.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Len whispers, tongue tracing the tendon in Barry’s neck. The younger man lets his head fall back, giving Len better access. “You have no idea how amazing you look. All the time. In that suit. With that ass.”

Len’s hand slips into the back pocket of Barry’s jeans and squeezes, just the right side of gentle, as his teeth scrape against the lobe of Barry’s ear. The speedster’s whole body lurches forward under Len’s ministrations, head falling against the older man’s shoulder.

“Len,” Barry whines. He already sounds wrecked, and they’ve only gone as far as getting his shirt off.

“Tell me what you want, Barry,” Len prompts, his voice firm and commanding.

“Can you take your shirt off, too?” Barry asks, lips brushing against the side of Len’s neck. He kisses him once, open-mouthed, against his thundering pulse for good measure.

“Yeah,” Len replies. “I can do that.”

Untangling himself from Barry’s needy grasp, Len takes a step back and pulls his shirt over his head. He drops it to the floor alongside Barry’s, eyes never leaving the younger man’s face.

Len’s body is mesmerizing. His arms and shoulders are toned and strong, the ripple of his muscles driving Barry wild. His chest and stomach are beautiful, too. Len doesn’t have the same sharp, defined abs Barry does. Instead, his torso, while still fairly lean, is soft and fleshy. Barry knows his fingers will sink into Len’s sides, his hips, like down, and the prospect is every bit as enticing.

The myriad of scars is something magnificent, too, Barry thinks. A mural painted on temple walls, heralding the warrior’s triumph over evil.

“You’re gorgeous, too,” Barry says, his voice a soft whisper. He takes Len’s face between his hands and kisses him, gentle and slow. It’s a pace they keep for another few minutes, lips and tongues dragging together, deep and reverent but still patient and unhurried.

When they part again, Barry rubs his nose against Len’s, a small, teasing flick, and smiles. “Come to bed with me?” he asks.

Len smiles right back. “Lead the way.”

Barry takes the older man by the hand and leads him through the living room to his bedroom door. Turning the knob, Barry swings it open and drags Len forcefully inside. They meet for another kiss, urgency fueling their interaction once more.

“Open or closed?” Len asks with his hand on the door, still left ajar.

“You can close it, if you want,” Barry replies, so Len does.

“Lights on or off?” the older man asks next.

Barry can count on one hand his number of previous partners, and any time he’s ever had any kind of sexual contact with someone, it’s always been with the lights off. Now, though, Barry isn’t so sure. He wants to be able to see Len, to look into his eyes, to be intimate in a way he’s never wanted from sex before.

“Maybe keep them on?” Barry replies, though he sounds unsure even to his own ears.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want, Barry,” Len says reassuringly, his hands tracing gently along Barry’s sides.

“I’m not sure,” Barry admits. “I’ve never kept the lights on before. But I think I might want to this time.”

Len nods. “Okay, then,” he says. “We’ll keep them on. But you can ask to turn them off any time you want.”

Barry nods too, Len’s reassurances emboldening him. He kisses Len again, arms wrapping around his neck, and drags toward his unmade bed. Len’s hands move from around his waist, trailing downward, until he’s running his fingers teasingly along the top of Barry’s jeans.

“Can I take your pants off, Barry?” Len asks. The maddening rumble of his voice as he says Barry’s name sends a shock of heat through the younger man’s body. Still, he finds himself flushing in embarrassment, too, suddenly unsure.

“I haven’t had any reconstructive surgery,” Barry chokes out. “Down there, I mean.”

“Okay,” Len replies, voice level, like that’s neither here nor there. His index finger traces lightly against the skin below Barry’s belly button, sending shivers up his spine. “How do you want me to talk about your body?”

Len’s gentle touches have Barry melting in his hands, and he finds himself much less anxious than before. “I’m okay with vagina, and pussy,” he replies. “For the hole. But--”

He stammers, cutting himself off abruptly. Len keeps trailing his fingers along Barry’s skin, patient and understanding. “It’s okay to ask for what you want, Barry,” the other man whispers.

The statement catches Barry off guard. So much of Len’s behaviour is foreign to him in the context of sex. He’s never had a partner ask about his genitalia like this before. It’s always been careless, probing questions about what’s down there. And then, once they found out, no one had ever asked him about the language they should use, just made assumptions based on what everything looked like. Len? Len was different. He made Barry feel different.

He made Barry feel good.

“I prefer to have my clit called my penis,” Barry says finally.

Len nods. “Okay,” he says again, like it’s as simple as that.

“Where did you learn to ask all this stuff?” Barry wonders aloud. This is a far cry from his typical experience.

“I used to date an agender person,” Len replies. “A few years back. They taught me a lot about what it’s like to be trans, about things I could do to make certain elements of our relationship easier for them. Better for them.”

Len stops to plant a kiss at the base of Barry’s throat. “I’m hardly an expert,” he continues. “But I’m not totally inept, either.”

“Well,” Barry says with a small, sad chuckle. “It’s a step up from what I’m used to.”

The comment has Len straightening as soon as it leaves Barry’s lips. He meets Barry’s eyes and stares into them deeply, looking about as sad as Barry feels. When Len leans forward to kiss him, Barry feels the weight of his care and concern like they’re physical entities wrapping him up in a tight embrace.

Len’s fingers work his belt open deftly as they continue to kiss. He unbuttons Barry’s jeans and tugs down the zipper, then pushes his hands inside the open V to push them off Barry’s hips.

“You, too,” Barry pants, his own, trembling hands trying to work open Len’s belt. Len chuckles at his fumbling enthusiasm and quickly comes to Barry’s aid.

When Len’s pants slide to the floor, the bulge in his boxer-briefs becomes even clearer than it had been in his jeans. Barry’s mouth waters at the sight, but at the same time, he’s hit with an errant pang of jealousy and, dare he say, _pain_ , he can’t control. Len must notice the shift in his mood, because his hand comes up to rub reassuringly along Barry’s back.

“Are you okay?” Len asks, voice gentle in Barry’s ear.

“Your cock looks amazing,” Barry whines.

Len chuckles, and the sound travels straight to Barry’s groin. “I’m sure yours does, too,” he replies, nose trailing along the shell of Barry’s ear. “Lay down for me.”

Obediently, Barry does. He pushes the tangle of blankets aside rather forcefully, sending them all toppling over the side of the bed, but Len doesn’t comment. Instead, he crawls over Barry’s body and kisses him, all filthy teeth and tongues. His fingers hook into the waistband of Barry’s underwear and he pulls back, smiling wickedly.

“Can I take these off?” he asks.

Barry’s so turned on he can barely get his tongue to work. He makes a needy, desperate sound and nods emphatically in place of using actual words, which just causes Len to let out that same, obscene chuckle again.

When Len’s hands slip under Barry’s boxer-briefs, Barry reflexively lifts his hips, letting the older man slide the fabric over the swell of his ass and down his legs. Immediately, another wave of uncertainty washes over Barry. Something about having his genitals out on display feels markedly different than just talking about them. The old adage of seeing being believing comes to mind.

Again, Len senses the tension in his body and begins tracing a hand over Barry’s stomach while he uses the other to prop himself up so he can look into the younger man’s eyes.

“Tell me what you need, Barry,” Len says.

Barry sucks in a ragged breath. “Just what you’re doing,” he replies. “Checking in. Going slow.”

“Okay,” Len whispers. He leans forward and Barry arches up until their mouths meet halfway. They kiss one another lazily, hands roaming, legs intertwining, until all the tension’s seeped from Barry’s body, leaving him nearly a puddle on the bed.

“This feels so good,” Barry pants, fingers digging into the flesh of Len’s shoulders.

“It can feel even better,” Len replies. He pulls himself up to meet Barry’s eyes and smirks. “Can I go down on you?”

Barry swallows thickly, toes curling at the request. “Yeah,” he says with what little breath he can find.

Len kisses him one more time, tongue probing hotly in and out of Barry’s mouth, before he pulls back and starts moving down the younger man’s body. He trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down Barry’s chest, dips his tongue into Barry’s naval, before coming to settle between Barry’s thighs.

Len’s hands claps Barry’s legs and draw them further apart. Before Barry can think to be too self-conscious, Len trails his tongue in a firm point along the inside of his left thigh, and Barry’s mind effectively goes blank.

“How do you want me to touch you, Barry?” Len asks. His breath puffs against Barry’s core and it makes him tremble with want.

“I like having my cock played with,” Barry pants. He runs his left hand through his hair, fingers twitching with pent up lust. His right hand clenches and unclenches uselessly at his side. Len reaches up and twines their fingers together, and a wave of heat floods through Barry’s body at the gesture.

“I like being fingered,” the speedster continues, though it’s quickly becoming hard to form sentences with Len’s lips trailing over his thighs. “Anal’s okay, but I prefer vaginal.”

Len hums quietly. “I can do that,” he replies. Then, he brings the thumb of his free hand up to stroke over Barry’s swollen cock, and the speedster’s whole body jolts.

“Good?” Len checks.

“Very good,” Barry assures him.

Len chuckles fondly in response, then places one last kiss to Barry’s inner thigh before leaning in to swipe the flat of his tongue up Barry’s slit until he reaches his cock. Len immediately takes it into his mouth and sucks, earning a desperate whine from Barry.

Len keeps going, alternating between licking and sucking, hard and soft, circles and strokes, up and down, left and right. When the older man slips a finger inside, along with the continued ministrations of his tongue, digit crooking to press against the spongy tissue of Barry’s G-spot, the speedster’s vision nearly goes white.

“I’m gonna come,” Barry warns, breath coming in short, quick pants.

Len pulls his mouth back enough to speak, but keeps his finger moving against that delicious spot. “How do you feel about multiple orgasms?” the thief asks.

“Pretty fantastic,” Barry replies, laughter strained and almost manic as his pleasure continues to mount.

“Then come, Barry,” Len instructs. The combination of Len’s commanding tone and his finger’s deliberate movement inside of Barry pushes the younger man over the edge. His walls flutter violently against Len’s finger as he comes, back arching off the bed. A quick shiver of super speed rips through Barry’s body. It catches Len a bit off guard, but the older man takes it in stride. He keeps stroking his thumb against Barry’s cock until he feels Barry pull his hips back, oversensitive.

Len withdraws his finger and wipes it haphazardly on the sheets before crawling back up Barry’s body to capture his lips in a slow, lazy kiss. Barry can taste himself on Len’s tongue, and it drives him absolutely wild.

“You want me to return the favour?” Barry asks, fingers trailing teasingly over Len’s collar bones.

The older man huffs a laugh. “That depends,” he replies.

“On what?” Barry asks, head tilting curiously.

“On whether you want me to come in your mouth,” Len begins in a filthy whisper. He places a searing kiss to Barry’s lips before continuing. “Or last long enough to put my dick somewhere more mutually beneficial.”

Barry swallows thickly at the lewd suggestion. “Mutually beneficial sounds good,” he croaks, and Len just smirks that stupid, handsome, self-satisfied smirk of his. He sits up and leans over the end of the bed, reaching to pick up his discarded jeans.

Len fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, then roots through it until he comes up with a small foil packet. “How do you wanna do this?” he asks, staring back down at the younger man.

“I think the first step would probably be for you to take off your underwear,” Barry teases, reaching forward to snap the elastic waistband lightly against Len’s hip. The thief chuckles, then reaches up to slide the boxer-briefs down his hips.   

Barry braces himself to feel jealous, disconcerted, maybe even inadequate, at the sight of Len’s fully erect penis, but surprisingly, none of the negative emotions he anticipates spring forward. Instead, he just feel a hot wave of desire crawl up his body, settling in as a pleasant, tingling burn at the back of his neck.

His expression must be particularly dopey, because Len smiles sweetly down at him before leaning in for a gentle, teasing kiss, one hand delicately cradling Barry’s face, fingers stroking through his hair.

“There’s a tube of lube in the nightstand,” Barry says and, immediately, Len reaches back to grab it. “It’s not that I’m not turned on,” the younger man rushes to add. “Just that my hormone therapy kinda messes with stuff down there.”

“I know,” Len assures him. He dips to press a kiss to Barry’s sternum, and the speedster shivers. “You don’t have to justify your body to me, Barry. I just wanna make you feel good.”

Unbidden, Barry sucks in a shuddering breath. “I just wanna make you feel good, too,” he whispers. He takes Len forcefully by the shoulders and hauls him up for a deep, salacious kiss. For a while, they keep things slow, unhurried. As their tongues continue exploring, teeth exchanging playful nips and tugs, Len coats his fingers generously with lube and brings them down to Barry’s entrance. He plunges in one finger first, then two, until Barry in whining desperately into his mouth.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Len asks, his voice a breathy whisper in Barry’s ear. He tugs on the lobe with his teeth, tongue teasing gently against his skin, and Barry’s whole body trembles with want. “It was my suggestion,” the older man continues. “You can say no.”

“I know,” Barry pants. He feels like he’s about to shake apart. “But I don’t want to. I want you to fuck me, Len.”

Len doesn’t need to be asked twice. With one final thrust, he withdraws his fingers to tear open the foil packet previously deposited on the bed. Len rolls the condom down his shaft in one smooth motion, Barry flushing hotter and hotter with anticipation as the seconds tick by.

When Len leans back down over Barry’s body, one arm braced against the mattress, the other on his cock to guide himself into Barry’s hole, the younger man stops him with a hand on the center of his sternum. Len looks down at Barry, his expression filled with patience and concern, and it makes Barry’s heart stutter in his chest.  

“Can I ride you, instead?” Barry asks.

Rather than answer with words, Len simply rolls over onto his back, settling down comfortably in Barry’s pillows, waiting for the younger man to make his move. Barry throws a leg over Len’s thighs, straddling him wantonly. Their heady eye contact holds as Barry grips the other man’s erection to guide it inside himself.

Barry’s hands move to grip at Len’s pecs as he slowly slides down on his length. It’s just the right size that Barry feels wonderfully full but still comfortable. Hearing Len’s shallow puffs of breath as Barry takes him in makes the speedster’s toes curl, his own breath coming in sharp pants. He slides his hands firmly down Len’s arms until he can twine their fingers together.

“God, you feel amazing, Barry,” the thief groans, head tilted back in pleasure, but his eyes never leave the younger man’s.

“You feel amazing, too,” Barry gasps. He rocks his hips experimentally, prying a ragged moan from Len’s mouth. He leans down to kiss him, sloppy and wet, with absolute, lust-fuelled abandon.

When Barry starts to move more in earnest, Len’s moaning only increases. Barry hadn’t expected him to be so vocal, but he likes it, every delicious sound from Len’s mouth a stab of white hot pleasure through Barry’s cock.

When Len shifts their position, torso rising from the mattress until Barry is essentially sitting in his lap, it allows the younger man to wrap his legs tightly around Len’s back. Barry’s arms circle around Len’s shoulders, fingers raking through the sweat on his back. He drags his lips across Len’s mouth, less of a kiss, more of a desperate bid to share the same breath as they move together.

“I’m close,” Barry pants, lips brushing against Len’s, tongue poking out to taste him.

Len shudders. “Me too,” he replies.

“Fuck me harder,” Barry whispers, and Len is all too happy to oblige.

Wrapping an arm firmly around Barry’s waist, he flips them over, pinning Barry to the mattress. Len’s right hand wraps around his thigh and hikes it up higher. The shift in position makes Barry see stars and he lets out a loud, strung out moan.

“Touch me,” Barry pleads.

Len’s hand moves from his thigh to stroke Barry’s cock in time with his thrust. They’re quickly losing their rhythm, long, slow strokes being replaced with the quick, frantic snap of hips instead. The hand that isn’t on Barry’s cock is wrapped around his own, pressing their joined fingers down into the mattress in a way that’s almost painful but just right.

“Will you come with me?” Barry asks, toes curled impossibly tight, trying to prolong the inevitable.

“Yeah, Barry,” Len pants, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his neck. “I’m right there.”

Barry’s whole body trembles at Len’s words. “Look at me,” the speedster requests, firm and demanding, and the older man does. They stare deep into one another’s eyes, noses brushing lightly with every thrust, and it’s all Barry can do to keep himself breathing. The air around them feels thick with their desire, their passion, their want.

Finally, the dam breaks and Barry comes, letting out a desperate, strangled whine. His back arches off the bed and he shakes violently, superspeed zipping, unchecked, through his entire body. It’s enough to send Len right over the edge after him, Barry’s name falling from his lips like a curse, or a prayer, Barry isn’t sure which.

Len’s muscles tremble as he fights to keep himself up, placing gentle, absent kisses along Barry’s clavicles until they both come down from their high. Barry touches him just as gently, just as absently, fingers of one hand trailing across his shoulders, the other carding through the short hair on his scalp.

When they’ve both cooled down a bit, Len slowly pulls out, right hand running up and down Barry’s side reassuringly. He takes the condom off and ties it shut, dropping it in the wastebasket beside Barry’s nightstand.  

Barry stares up at the ceiling, right hand burying itself in his hair, grip almost uncomfortably tight. Now that the heat of the moment has passed, he isn’t sure what to make of what just happened between himself and his former nemesis. It felt good - amazing even - but Barry is still The Flash, and Len is still Captain Cold.

“Are you okay?” Len asks cautiously. He remains sitting up, one leg on the floor, giving Barry space.

“Yeah,” Barry replies. He shifts to sit up, too, looking over at the older man. “I’m just trying to figure out where we stand now, you know?”

Len shrugs. “Where do you want us to stand?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.

Barry scoffs, sounding more derisive than he intended. “That’s not fair,” the younger man says. “This whole evening’s been about you giving me what I want. What I need. You took my fear and my pain, and you made me feel safe and respected. You reminded me of how much I could be wanted when it felt like the world was screaming at me that I couldn’t.

“So, let me return the favor,” Barry continues, voice soft now, and raw with emotion. “What do you want, Len? What do you need?”

Len says nothing in reply. He doesn’t have to. Instead, he holds Barry’s gaze with such blind admiration, open and unguarded in a way Barry’s never seen before, not just from the thief but from anyone. Slowly, Len leans forward. He cups Barry’s cheek in his warm, broad palm and kisses him.

That’s all the answer Barry needs.

“Do you wanna grab a coffee together sometime?” the speedster asks, barely a whisper, his breath puffing against Len’s lips, foreheads pressed together.  

“Yeah,” Len croaks, the unsteady tremble making Barry’s chest feel tight and hot.

“How about tomorrow morning?” Barry wonders.

The silent request for Len to stay the night doesn’t go unnoticed, and the other man smiles softly against Barry’s lips. “Sounds great,” he agrees.

Barry leans in to kiss Len once more, long and slow, pouring every ounce of his gratitude, of his affection, into the exchange. When they finally part, Barry reaches over the side of the bed to pick the heap of blankets up off the floor. As he does, Len gets up to turn off the light. With the older man settled back in bed, Barry pulls the blankets across their bodies, lying face to face, legs intertwined, hands running along hard planes and soft curves reverently.

“Goodnight, Barry,” Len whispers.

A small, sluggish smile pulls at the corners of Barry’s mouth as his eyelids slowly droop shut.

“Goodnight, Len.”

**Author's Note:**

> I read a very helpful article called [8 Tips on Respectfully Talking Pleasure, Sex, and Bodies With Your Trans Lover](http://everydayfeminism.com/2014/12/8-tips-on-respectfully-talking-pleasure-sex-and-bodies-with-your-trans-lover/) by Sam Dylan Finch, who is a trans person, as part of my research, and I'd strongly encourage everyone to give it a read. It was very insightful and brought things to my attention I had never thought of before.  
> Also, if you enjoyed this fic, come check me out on [tumblr](http://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/).


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